


It's Beginning To Look A Lot Like Christmas

by UniverseOnHerShoulders



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Christmas, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2019-12-21
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:02:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21747208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UniverseOnHerShoulders/pseuds/UniverseOnHerShoulders
Summary: The Doctor is determined to make Christmas perfect all by herself. The team are happy enough to leave her to it at first... until the mishaps start occurring...
Relationships: Thirteenth Doctor & Yasmin Khan & Graham O'Brien & Ryan Sinclair, Thirteenth Doctor/Clara Oswin Oswald
Comments: 11
Kudos: 41





	It's Beginning To Look A Lot Like Christmas

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hookedphantom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hookedphantom/gifts).



> Happy Christmas, everyone! Huge thank you to all of my wonderful readers!

“I can manage,” the Doctor had said with absolute determination, in the voice she knew encouraged no arguments. She’d resolutely refused all offers of help from the team, and so here she is instead, hefting boxes of Christmas decorations from somewhere deep in the TARDIS by herself. She lifts the cardboard box she’s carrying a few inches higher, adjusting it in her arms and trying to find the least awkward way to carry it, and the bottom gives way without warning, releasing a veritable waterfall of baubles and tinsel that cascades over her shoes and crashes into a heap on the floor of the corridor. She swears under her breath in Gallifreyan and drops into a crouch, reassembling the box as best as she can and picking through the heap of tinsel, shoving it back into the box hastily. A concealed, jagged shard of broken bauble catches her fingertip as she packs it down, and she swears again, sticking her finger in her mouth before inspecting the damage.

As she pulls her finger back out of her mouth, blood wells up along the length of the cut, threatening to drip onto the floor, and she sighs, knowing that this isn’t something she can just work around – not if she wants to avoid Christmas becoming distinctly more horror-film-y than she’d like, and so she resigns herself to heading in search of the kitchen, or the medical bay, or anywhere with a first aid kit. She keeps telling herself that no one wants bloodstained tinsel, least of all her, and so she strides off with determination, finally happening upon a kitchen and heading inside with a sigh of relief that turns into a yelp of shock.

Clara is heating a plate of mince pies in the microwave, surveying them with a critical eye as they revolve around on a festive-patterned plate. At the Doctor’s cry, she looks over, and there’s the faint sound of the pies bursting from behind her, and then Clara sighs in irritation as she realises she’s overcooked them.

“I’m not that scary,” Clara says, arching an eyebrow with a smirk. “Thanks for ruining the-” she catches sight of the Doctor’s bleeding finger, and her eyes widen, all pastry-based crimes forgotten. “What did you do?!”

“Dropped a box,” the Doctor mutters, heading towards the sink with her head bowed, feeling her cheeks burn in embarrassment at such a stupid, idiotic manner of injuring herself. “Well, I didn’t drop it – the bottom broke. But then everything fell out, and some of the baubles b-broke…”

She bursts into silly, irrational tears that she doesn’t fully understand. She’d wanted everything to be perfect, that was all, and now Clara knows that she can’t even manage to lug boxes around without dropping things and cutting herself, which is the furthest from perfect it is possible to be. She feels embarrassed, and silly, and her finger is stinging in a way that isn’t significant, but is enough to be annoying, and it all feels like too much all of a sudden. She’d wanted to organise a magical day, and now she’s got Clara all worried – not to mention ruined the mince pies.

“Hey!” Clara says at once, all faux-animosity over the mince pies long since forgotten – or so it seems. “Don’t cry! It’s just a little cut; come on, we’ll stick it under the tap.”

She places one hand on the Doctor’s waist and guides her towards the sink with care, cradling the injured hand and holding it under the tap. Switching it on, she fiddles with the temperature for a second or so, and the Doctor sighs as the water grows warmer and runs over her fingers, taking the blood and sting with it.

“There,” Clara says soothingly, pressing a kiss to the Time Lady’s cheek, and the Doctor feels her mood brighten infinitesimally. “Better?”

“Yeah. Thank you, Nurse Clara.”

“You know, we would’ve helped, if you’d asked.”

“No,” the Doctor says firmly, shaking her head in a rebuttal of the offer of help. “I can manage on my own.”

“Well, do you want my help to put on a plaster, or can you do that alone too?” Clara asks, her tone teasing, but there’s a slight edge to her words that the Doctor doesn’t want to read into.

“A plaster would be good, thank you,” she acquiesces, reaching for the kitchen roll and patting her finger dry. “Sorry.”

“S’alright.”

The Doctor falls silent and waits patiently as Clara finds a plaster and applies it to her finger, then thanks her and bolts from the room before either of them can say anything else. Her cheeks are still burning, and she has a job to do.

Boxes won’t move themselves, after all.

* * *

The tree is large, and worse than that, it’s prickly. The Doctor’s coat is full of pine needles, some embedded halfway in the fabric and stopped in their path before they can meet her skin, but several of the buggers have slipped through, and she stops and shakes every few feet like a dog, dislodging them from where they’re pricking at her insistently. It’s itchy, and it’s irritating, but she supposes she can live with it for a while, and so she stomps heroically onwards with her precious acquisition.

It’s the biggest tree she could find, and she’s proud of her accomplishment in dragging it so far by herself. She’s almost at the console room when she bumps into Ryan, who affixes her with a look of considerable amusement, and it’s then that she realises her hair is full of pine needles too. She shakes her head and they fall around her like brightly-coloured scented confetti and Ryan laughs.

“Doctor,” he says with a fond sigh, reaching over and plucking the tree from her arms before she can complain. The way he holds it with ease in one hand is strangely stinging; she remembers being able to do that once, when she had been taller and stronger. “Why didn’t you shout? We’d have helped you carry this. Or drag it. Whichever. Not too sure on the mechanics of Christmas tree movement. Is there a wrong method?”

“I don’t need help,” she huffs, taking the opportunity to dust herself down, and a puddle of pine needles forms at her feet as they tumble from her clothing. “I dragged that from the Tree Room all the way to here by myself. I’m doing fine.”

“What do you mean the Tree Room?” Ryan asks, his brow furrowing, but he keeps his hold on the tree, turning his attention to it and examining it somewhat warily. “Have you just got a room full of trees?”

“Of course,” the Doctor raises her eyebrows. “Where did you think the oxygen was coming from?”

“I dunno,” he shrugs, blinking hard. “Space?”

“No oxygen in space,” the Doctor reminds him. “It’s a vacuum, remember?”

“Oh yeah,” he grimaces, then parrots: “‘In space, no one can hear you scream.’”

“I hate that film. It gives you all a right negative slant on space. _I’ll_ probably hear you scream, but that’s just because I’m nosy and I’ve got an alarm fitted,” she pauses, then adds in a more serious tone: “I’ll have the tree back now, ta.”

“I can manage it. You must be knackered; it’s not far-”

“I can do it, Ryan,” she says firmly – more firmly than she intends – and his face falls in response to her tone. She seizes the opportunity to grab the tree back, and adjusts it in her hands, feeling the bark rub at her already-sore palms as she experiences a pang of guilt; he was only trying to help. “Sorry. I just… I just want everything to be perfect this year, you know?”

“So, let us help,” he counters, his expression still hurt, and she hates knowing that it’s her fault, but she doesn’t know how to explain what she’s feeling without sounding… well, like a control freak. “I know I’m dyspraxic and the last person you want near the tree, but I want to help. We all do.”

“I can manage,” she says again, offering him a weary smile. “Really. But thanks, and don’t worry.”

She sets off before he can argue, her arms and shoulders shrieking in complaint at the weight of the tree, and leaves Ryan stood in the middle of the corridor, his coat newly-studded with pine needles.

* * *

The fairy lights are, she has to admit, a challenge. She has a view to stringing them all around the TARDIS, in the manner of things she’s seen Clara like on a strange site called Pinterest, but she discovers while attempting this feat that she is not, unfortunately, quite as tall as she once was. She instead takes to dragging a rickety old stepladder around with her, balancing on it precariously as she hangs lights from sconces and brackets and hooks, lining the corridors, and if she falls off once or twice then – well, no one is looking, and the bruises will fade quickly enough.

“You know,” Clara says one afternoon, after happening upon her just as she’d tumbled from the ladder for the tenth time, and is rubbing her knees as she sits on the floor of the corridor. She’d landed on them with all her body weight, and she feels shaky and unstable now, her hands trembling as she runs them up and down her legs in a bid to dissipate the pain. “I could help you with this. Might be easier.”

“How?” the Doctor asks, her voice oddly tremulous as her body continues to shake treacherously. “You’re shorter than I am.”

“Not by much,” Clara shoots back, raising her eyebrows warningly in the manner she so often does when her height is mentioned. “Not anymore.”

“I’ve still got a height advantage,” the Doctor half-snaps, the pain in her legs peaking as she tries to stretch them out, making her irrationally, uncharacteristically irritable. “So don’t worry about it.”

“Alright,” Clara takes a hesitant step back, and the Doctor feels a rush of remorse – she hadn’t meant to be so snappy with her and she immediately wants to make amends. “I mean, I could… hold the ladder? Make sure it’s a bit more stable.”

“No,” the Doctor says at once, shaking her head emphatically as she looks up at Clara and feels nothing but a surge of guilt. She can make it up to her, though; she just needs to be left to her own devices to make sure that everything is as perfect as possible. “No, thanks, but I can do this. I’ll fit a gravity clamp, that should make it more stable.”

“Doctor, I _want_ to help.”

“Well, I don’t need you to help,” the Doctor bluntly, wanting nothing more than to be left alone to be in pain in peace, but still hating herself as she looks up at Clara, whose expression is crestfallen at the perceived rejection. “I can manage on my own.”

“There’s no need to…” Clara says tightly, and the Doctor feels a spiralling sense of guilt at having been so abrupt, and curses her own clumsiness. “Fine. Alright.”

She walks off before the Doctor can so much as get to her feet, and by the time the Time Lady has managed to stand, Clara is long gone.

* * *

The Doctor knows that mince pies will be the way to Clara’s heart. She’s sure of it. Nothing says ‘I’m sorry’ quite like homemade baked goods, and she’s not letting the fact that she hasn’t got a hard and fast recipe discourage her from trying her best. She’s flicked through several cookbooks on the subject, and she’s combining bits of each recipe; adding, taking away, improving, garnishing, until it’s distinctly, well… her. It might prove to be disastrous, but at least she’s trying.

Yaz is leaning on a nearby counter as she rolls out the pastry, becoming increasingly frustrated as it sticks to the worktop and the rolling pin and threatens to break apart with each attempt. Maybe this is her punishment for trying to freestyle.

“Do you want me to get the flour?” Yaz asks helpfully, after watching her struggle to roll it out for the tenth time. “It’ll stop it all sticking when you roll it out.”

“I’m fine,” the Doctor says impatiently, tucking her hair behind her ear and smearing pastry dough across her temple in the process. “I can manage this.”

“It’s no bother,” Yaz says earnestly, heading towards the cupboard where the Doctor had shoved the half-empty bag of flour she’d made use of sometime earlier. Crouching, she extracts it and hefts it into her arms, turning back to the Doctor with an eager smile. “Here, let me-”

“I’ve got it,” the Doctor grabs suddenly for the bag, and Yaz, in her surprise, lets go of it. It falls to the floor and explodes in a haze of white, coating both of them in flour from the waist down, and the Doctor resists the urge to swear under her breath again as particles of white drift upwards, causing them to cough.

“Oops,” Yaz says, starting to laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation, before falling abruptly silent as the Time Lady fails to join in. “Come on, what’s wrong? It’s just a bit of flour! No good getting cross about it; I’ll go and find a hoover.”

“No,” the Doctor says through gritted teeth, shaking her legs and dislodging a small cloud of flour, most of which settles on Yaz. Her companion looks as though she’s made of snow now, and the Doctor hopes the flour will wash out of her clothes without ruining them, especially her star jumper. It’s appropriately Christmassy, and she isn’t sure if she’s got time to pick them up new knitwear. “I’ve got this.”

“Well, clearly you haven’t, or we wouldn’t look like we’ve got snowmen legs.”

“I can clear up, thanks. I’m not that hopeless.”

“You’re one of the messiest people I’ve ever met,” Yaz teases, and the Doctor sighs; her companion isn’t wrong and she smiles at the realisation. “I’ll go and get a hoover.”

“Don’t,” the Doctor pleads, her voice cracking, and Yaz freezes, looking disconcerted by the Doctor’s sudden change in tone. “ _I_ made this mess, so _I_ will clear it up. OK?”

“If you’re sure,” Yaz says in a small, uncertain voice, looking down at her legs and then back up at the Doctor, before turning away quickly, as though it would be wrong to witness any more of her friend’s sudden sadness. The Doctor is grateful for that, and feels a rush of affection for her companion. “I’ll urm… I’ll go and have a bath and get cleaned up.”

The Doctor watches her go with a weary sigh, then turns her attention back to the pastry with a huff. Mince pies. Mince pies will make everything better, surely? Everyone likes a good mince pie – although these are threatening to be _bad_ mince pies, at the rate she’s going.

“Oh, Delia Smith,” she mutters, removing a handful of flour from her trouser leg and scattering it on the rolling pin, per Yaz’s original suggestion. “Why have you forsaken me now?”

* * *

The tree is vaguely in place, surrounded by boxes of decorations stacked haphazardly atop one another in vague piles. There’s a plate of mince pies cooling on the console, dusted with icing sugar and steaming softly, filling the room with a rich, distinctly Christmassy smell. The Doctor is no longer covered in flour, and she’s ready to decorate the tree.

There’s only the slight obstacle of Graham’s presence to be overcome.

“I’ll help,” he says brightly, apparently having failed to take any of her earlier hints that she would like to be left alone. The mince pies, she reasons, may not actually be helping; he’s prone to hanging around where there’s free food. She wonders if she can bribe him with a mince pie, but that doesn’t seem fair on the others. “I don’t mind; I’d like to do it.”

“I can-”

“Manage? Just like you managed the others? Yeah, I’ll bet.”

“What does that mean?” the Doctor asks, feeling stung, and then experiencing a rush of guilt as she realises they’re been talking – and likely complaining – about her unusually blunt and determinedly independent manner over the past couple of days.

“Nothing,” he shrugs, then adds: “Just that you keep saying you can manage all these Christmas things and then you keep not managing them at all. Cutting yourself on a bauble, falling off ladders. Dropping flour everywhere. Wearing pine needles like they’re the latest trend. We’re worried about you, Doc.”

“Well, I’m trying my best,” the Doctor says defensively, although she knows he’s right – she hasn’t been coping as well as she’d have liked. “And I’m doing what I can.”

“I suppose it’s the best way to learn,” Graham says dubiously, although he looks oddly sad. “I just wish… never mind.”

“Wish what?”

“We really do want to help."

“And I really do want to do things on my own.”

“So, you don’t want me to help untangle the lights?”

“No,” she pauses then adds guiltily: “Thank you.”

“And you definitely don’t want my help putting them round the tree? I’m a champion at that, you know.”

“No thanks.”

“Or doing the tinsel?”

“I can manage, ta.”

“Right then,” he raises his eyebrows, clearly bemused. “Off for a brew, in that case.”

He potters out of the room without further complaint, and the Doctor gets to work. She knows she should have accepted his offers of help; knows that allowing people to contribute is one of the best ways to win them over and make them feel part of something, and yet this?

This is something she needs to do alone.

* * *

The team and Clara are sat in the kitchen, sipping mugs of tea and exchanging complaints about the Doctor’s sudden, stubbornly independent streak when there’s an enormous _crash_ from the far distance. It doesn’t take a genius to work out the source of such a noise, and as one, they set down their mugs and race to the console room, taking in the scene before them with horror. The Christmas tree is on its side, needles everywhere and broken baubles strewn across the floor, and sprawled across the now-rather battered tree at an uncomfortable angle, fairy lights wrapped around her, is the Doctor, who is in floods of tears.

“Doctor?” Clara says tentatively, stepping closer, ignoring the shards of baubles crunching underfoot. The lights ensnaring the Doctor flicker and then die. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

“I j-just…” the Time Lady manages, putting her hands over her face without seeming to notice the myriad pine needles stuck into her skin. “I w-wanted everything to be p-perfect for you all.”

“What do you mean?” Clara asks, crouching beside her and reaching for the Doctor’s hands. Lifting them away from the Doctor’s face, she begins to brush pine needles off her cheeks and palms, and allows one of her hands to settle in the Doctor’s hair, running her fingers through it to dislodge further needles, which cascade to the floor slowly. “We’re together, isn’t that perfect enough?”

“I j-just wanted everything to be… you know, s-special and magical for you. After everything… everything I’ve put you through on Christmases past, I just thought you deserved one year where everything was done for you and was perfect and special and everything Christmas is meant to be.”

“What makes it special is doing it with the ones I love,” Clara murmurs, suddenly understanding the Doctor’s stubborn refusal to allow anyone to help her. She reaches for her partner and carefully disentangles her from the knotted string of lights, then pulls the Doctor away from the crushed tree, resting her on her lap and wrapping her arms around her. “Not having it all done for me by a grumpy Time Lady. And besides, you could’ve let the others help, if you were that keen on getting it all perfect for me.”

“Yeah, we’d have been willing and able,” Ryan chips in brightly. “I mean, I’m rubbish at decorating, but I’d have taste tested the mince pies.”

The Doctor smiles at him fleetingly, and Clara finds herself relieved by the small gesture. The Time Lady explains miserably: “I just wanted to do something nice for you all and make the TARDIS all lovely and pretty and I can’t even do that.”

“Don’t be daft,” Clara says in a reassuring tone. “It’s-”

“You deserve a proper Christmas, not a lousy one where I abandon you so I can die alone or you have to beg my people for a second chance or I regenerate or get you attacked by a Dream Crab or get you killed,” the Doctor continues miserably, and the team exchange confused glances, although Clara knows at once what the Doctor is referring to, and feels a pang of sadness at the memories that her words unlock. “And I can’t even do that.”

“Doctor, any Christmas I get to spend with you is magical. Even the one with the Dream Crab had its moments – like, you know, when I realised I could run away with you again, and promptly did so. You know, _in my nightie._ Really fetching look, that one.”

“You’re just being nice. I even ruined last year, remember? When River turned up without any warning?”

“She’s family,” Clara argues, remembering the event with a mixture of sadness and joy. “And I didn’t mind a bit. Can you please stop beating yourself up? I’ve had wonderful Christmases with you, and this one could be amazing as well – if you let us help. So, will you? Please?”

“Fine,” the Doctor mutters tremulously, allowing herself to be helped to her feet and embraced at last. Clara melts into the hug, ignoring the pricking of pine needles, and she feels the Doctor do the same, some of the tension leaving her as they hold onto each other. “Clara, we urm… we might need a new tree.”

“That’s alright.”

“And new baubles.”

“That’s OK.”

“And maybe a new mince pie recipe. I don’t know what those are like; they might be terrible…”

“We’ll be in charge of judging that,” Ryan and Graham say in unison, moving towards the plate as the Doctor and Clara exchange smiles.

“Christmas, Take Two?” Clara asks.

“Christmas, Take Two.”

* * *

The second tree is larger than the first, but only because there are five of them to carry it this time. The first one is replanted in a quiet spot in a corner of the Tree Room, and left in peace to try and get its dignity back; its squashed side is turned to the wall, as the Doctor was overly concerned it might be laughed at by its peers.

The decorations are nothing overly fancy – it’s a quick stop-off to each of their homes to see what they’ve got hidden away in cupboards or the attic – but Graham is put in charge of untangling the Christmas lights this time, as he’d volunteered to do originally, and then stringing those and tinsel around the tree. He relishes the role with gusto, delegating to Ryan where height is necessary, and supervising with a critical eye to make sure everything looks perfect before the girls swoop in with baubles and snowflakes and tiny glass icicles that chime musically when struck gently with a fingernail.

The mince pies are homemade as a team effort, with enough of them to feed several armies, and there’s five different designs stamped or cut into the top of the batch: stars and planets and trees and lattices and even a vaguely TARDIS-shaped pattern that half-works, half-doesn’t. They taste pretty good, especially with custard, and when the tree is done, they all stand around it with admiring expressions, cramming mince pies into their mouths and feeling a sense of calm. Clara places her hand in the Doctor’s, and the Time Lady pulls her into her arms, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

It’s all haphazard and a little messy; it’s chaotic and largely improvised.

And yet somehow… it’s perfect.


End file.
